Moriah treated at least half a dozen more injuries, before gunfire near the Lowtown gate drew her attention. Half a squad of yellow-jackets stood over three injured men near the Lowtown gate. The men were lying on the ground, moaning with pain, when the yellow-jackets raised their rifles and fired.
The yellow-jackets shot more men, and some women, as they moved through the field of injuries. More yellow-jackets appeared, and split up among the wounded. A dozen gunshots echoed as one. Each person they killed was lying in pain on the road, some groaning with broken bones and blood pooling beneath them. Battle-rage thrummed through Moriah’s body. She looked for Nicolai, but couldn’t see him anywhere nearby. It figures he’d disappear when she needed him. She stomped to the nearest yellow-jacket — a sergeant judging by the chevrons on his jacket. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing?”
The sergeant slowly turned to her, glanced at her face, and then turned away. He’d seen her eyes. Of course, a half-breed didn’t deserve a response. Moriah tapped him on the shoulder, forcing herself to not shoot him for the insult. The sergeant didn’t turn around. She tapped him on the shoulder again. He still didn’t turn. Moriah drew her pistol, cocked it, and held it to the back of the sergeant’s head. The man froze.
“Sergeant. If you do not turn around and look at me right now, I will shoot you. Is that understood?”
“I think not, half-breed.” The sergeant spoke, but still didn’t turn. Half a dozen repeating rifles cocked, and Moriah saw each gun pointed at her. The men’s ebony masks presented visages of uncaring stone all around. At least it wasn’t like Hirvak CityShyam, when half a hundred men had their weapons on her.
“Sergeant,” she said, “you are going to tell your men to lower their weapons.”
“Under whose authority? Yours?” The sergeant looked at her, blue eyes burning with hatred. He scoffed. “You have no power over me, blasphemer. Run along before my men send you to the Ninth Hell where all your kind belongs.”
“Moriah! Stand down!” Thomas’s voice echoed across the street. The old man ran toward her, and Malory looked over the roof of the truck idling behind him.
“Moriah Rowani?” The sergeant’s voice held a faint tremor. Good. Her reputation had preceded her. She allowed the battle-rage to show in her eyes, and the sergeant took an involuntary step back.
“Yes, sergeant that is my name. Now, would you be so kind as to answer my question?”
“Weapons down!” The yellow-jackets surrounding Moriah lowered their rifles. A yellow-jacket with a silver eagle on the breast pocket of his longcoat — a colonel — stalked over to them. “Sergeant Yosan. What is the meaning of this?” The colonel reached them at the same time as Thomas. He jumped when he noticed the old man. “Master Caine. What are you doing here?”
“Colonel Trevorian. My goddaughter saw the explosion, and decided to help the injured.” Thomas laid a hand on Moriah’s shoulder. “Moriah, we have worn out our welcome.”
“They’re killing people wounded in the explosion.” Moriah kept her gun pointed at the sergeant. “I saw them shoot more than a dozen who couldn’t fight back.”
“We don’t shoot civilians.” Yosan narrowed his eyes. “These errant moldwarps are traitors to the kingdom. They flout the Lord Premier’s law.”
“A wounded dockworker who was injured when your men fired cannon rounds into his apartment building is not a traitor,” Moriah said. “He is your countryman and deserves the help of a physician, not a bullet to the head because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Your Grace, if you would please lower your weapon?” Trevorian said. “I promise I will take care of the situation.”
From here, Moriah ends up launching into a speech about laws and how no one's above them. Which will be somewhat of a theme going forward.
Thoughts? Criticisms? This is very raw, so I'm sorry if any of the writing is unwieldy.